


untitled

by godcheekbones



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godcheekbones/pseuds/godcheekbones
Summary: original works during lockdown





	1. Session 1

Dear Diary,

My first week of circuit breaker.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever expected to buy a paper shredder now that I am at home. I worked my way through about six trash bags – and still counting. I am definitely going to need to buy some more at ValuDollar later on. 

What started out as reading a cute MariKondo manga turned out to be a deep cleaning of the cupboard and boxes. I usually start MariKondo with my wardrobe, but it is a little _sian_ – I know the drill. I throw away everything but work clothes, and then I plan a holiday trip and have to buy t-shirt and shorts for the trip. Underwear barely survives. There are currently five storage boxes in my room for unidentified purposes yet. All a bit concerning.

Well then. You might be wondering why I am back here. The paper shredder overheated (due to continuous use). I am letting it rest – or rather, it has a mind of its own and demanded rest. 

I am thinking of getting a couple of fake plants for my room for a touch of greenery. There are a lot of wooden tones to it but if I could bring a bit of green to my room that would be brilliant.

(I only have $50 in my bank account???)

As social distancing escalates, I am glad to say I do not have anything left in the office. My ex-colleague had very kindly dropped off my pink blanket at my house (it used to get pretty cold in the office). It was pretty dope of him. I cannot do without the blanket. 

This is the first Saturday in a while where I do not have to “go out” and do anything but of course I had to get my morning coffee. Not to mention I am obsessed with making my living space more palatable including making flower arrangements. When the flowers dry up, I plan to hang it against the window. It will look pretty. 

If you asked me how my weekend has been, I would be pressed to give you a proper answer. It is definitely a turbulent time for me right now. 

It has been around a week since I lost my job, and a lot has happened. 

I write this under my blanket. I just finished reading _The Plotter_ and the main character died. I am devastated. He was clearly itching to do something since his only friend died, and he decided to go all out in a final showdown, and it was not clever at all. I am SHOOK!!!!! 

Then again, I itch to start over, but I cannot pinpoint where. It is peculiar and upsetting.

Maybe the wardrobe…


	2. Session 2

**Write a scene on a character who suffers from phobia**

I sit my ass down on the fake grass. “Fuck  _ la _ .” 

“Seriously? No swearing.”

“This escape room is stressful, Cheryl. You’ve been staring at the wall for  _ at least _ five minutes. Do you even have a plan?”

“I  _ did _ . I was counting on the adrenaline to kick in, and it didn’t!”

We stare at each other for a moment. Then, I turn to my side and snort.

Cheryl crouches down grouchily, rearranging her uniform skirts and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Macs sounds really good right now,” she admits, in non-sequitur. “I didn’t eat breakfast before the math paper.”

“It’s ten to two,” I say, glancing at my watch, patting her on the shoulder. 

“Oh?” She nods thoughtfully. “Then we need to solve this in ten minutes.”

“Wait, that’s not what I meant—”

I cut myself off, watching her fists unclench and shoulders relax as she exhales her frustrations in a long sigh. She stands up again, delicately pats the dust off her skirt, and turns her full attention to the door.

God, I love her  _ so _ much. 

She hums softly as she reads the old newspaper cutout framed on the red-bricked east wall. The headline reads “JACK THE RI_PER ON THE EAST END”. 

“East end. Missing letter P,” she calls. 

“Genius,” I say. 

Cheryl glances over her shoulder, and I can see the smile threatening to break through her scowl. 

“Go and make yourself useful,” she scolds. “Find the door key, or whatever.”

I mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

The escape room setting is the front garden of the famous 221B Baker Street. A green picket fence lines all the walls, except the east. There is a fake potted plant next to the doorsteps. The non-descript dark brown door, flanked by two old-fashioned wall lamps with string switches, does not have a knob.

I glance at my watch again. Two minutes left, till the part-timer will call it quits for us. I stand up and stretch. My watch accidentally catches on the lamp string switch, and I pull.

A red letter ‘A’ flashes on the door for one second.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?”

I hear an echo. Cheryl is tugging at my shirt, pointing to the door, and says without malice, “I can’t believe you did it.”

I preen, uttering nonsensical ‘Nah’s and ‘Just my luck  _ la _ ’s, while Cheryl goes on tiptoes to reach the lamp string switch and does the actual work. She tugs through the alphabet, until the letter ‘P’ flashed, and the door swings open.

The EXIT sign switches on at the same time. The intercom cackles. The bored announcement intoning “Hi, your sixty minutes is up” gets drowned out by a very unmanly, utterly terrified, scream.    
  


Huh _. _

Okay. 

So, this is happening.  _ Fuck la.  _   
  


What is it the school counselor had taught me during my first session? 

Three things I can feel, three things I can hear.

I can feel the fake grass again, prickling on the length of back of my forearms and my ankles where my pants cut off. The thin, plastic blades are cold to touch because of the air-conditioning. I can feel the interlacing fingers on my right hand; slender, pianist fingers trembling so hard. I can feel my wire spectacles resting on my nose. 

I concentrate on my breathing. I counted to three as I inhale, three as I exhale. That is not a real body at the doorway.

That looks like a lot of blood though.

I close my eyes. Three things I can feel, three things I can hear. 

I can hear the shuddering air moving through my mouth. I can hear the thick exit door groan open. I can hear my name, distantly.   
  


“I’ve got you,” says Cheryl, over and over again, and I think,  _ silly girl, you’re so much smaller than me _ .

I hear her laugh. It is full of relief.

“You fell,” says Cheryl, all matter of fact, “but I’ve got you.”

I  _ love _ this woman, just so goddamn much. 

When I open my eyes, the part-timer is peering down at us from under his red corporate cap. I roll to the side and push myself to sitting position, and Cheryl delicately pats the dust off the back of my shirt. 

“You gave me a real scare there,” the part-timer says, scratching the side of his nose. 

“ _ He _ gave you a scare?” Cheryl chokes out incredulously. I refuse to turn my head to the scene of the crime, but I know she is pointing in its general direction. “That  _ thing _ is ridiculous! Get rid of it! C’mon, let’s go, we’re going Macs. My treat.”


	3. Session 3

This is the afternoon shift, which means I clock in to the store at 2.30pm and clock off at 10pm. The till closes at 9.45pm unless there is a Prime Minister Speech and the subsequent queue of last-minute shoppers; clutching toilet, hand sanitisers and disposable face masks. 

I ignore the dreadful headlines as I adjust the stack of newspapers on the stand at the front of the store, which is about the size of an average parking lot. It is next to the toilets at the shopping mall basement, but the elderly cleaner is assigned to clean it at the top of the hour. And when she walks slowly on her bad days, hand on her back and scowl on her face, I ring up a can of Yeo’s soy bean milk and tell the  _ makcik  _ it is dented and bound for the trash can, so will she take it, please? (“It is your favourite, I know!”) 

My manager walks into the store. She is changed into civilian clothes. She bumps into the newspaper stand, preoccupied with stuffing the store uniform into her moth bitten handbag.

My polo t-shirt is the ugliest shade of blue, with red and orange stripes down the sides. I change the colour of my face mask to match the day of the week. Today is Monday, so it is bright pink to match the braces that no one can see. The Man at the Top has not found a way to enforce regulation on face masks. Well, not  _ yet _ . 

My manager hates my sewing project with a passion. “You are an  _ art _ student,” she says, before she clocks out of her morning shift, and returns back to her 2-room flat with four children in primary school.

“It’s not counted when I’m on a Leave of Absence,” I say cheerfully, arms full of isotonic drink bottles to stock up the open air display cooler. I nudge the old stock to the front and carefully line the bottles according to brand. 

“It’s such a waste of money to go to university to study art,” she fusses, and the corners on the outside of my lips feel heavy all of a sudden. 

She notices. She looks at the fluorescent white lights on the ceiling and sighs loudly, hands on full hips. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she mutters, just loud enough so that I can hear, and I take it as the olive branch she means it to be.

“It’s a hot day,” I say, changing the subject, “Changi Beach might not have hit its full capacity yet, if you rush. It’s  _ Hari Raya _ so no school, and I bet the kids want to go out.”

“Public Holiday, normal Monday, where got difference,” she grumbles, but her eyes soften at the mention of her children. She forcibly zips the mouth of her handbag close. “Okay, bye!”

The store is suddenly silent and still.

I go back behind the counter. I methodically wipe it down with Dettol wipes – a slow slide to the right, an upwards shift, a slower slide to the left, and so on. It takes all of 5 minutes, during which I make approximately $0.67 according to my part-time contract. 

I sit on the hard stool, drumming my fingers on the counter top. It is hard to forget my manager’s words. As I shift my weight on the stool, I can feel the thin wallet that fits in the back pocket of my jeans a little too easily and I remember the red light that flashed when I tapped off my ez-link card on the bus. 

CLANG-DONG.

I glance at the entrance. 

“Hello  _ makcik _ ,” I greet, standing up. “Is it time for your shift?”

She nods her head, but there is a weird tension in her shoulders. After turning several pages of the newspaper (which would be a  _ bitch _ to rearrange to look sellable after, but I hold my tongue), she pauses and scratches her head. Then a few moments later, she shuffles awkwardly to the cash register.

A thought strikes me. Does she want the Yeo’s? 

I move quickly, probably taking her by surprise. She is still staring at the floor, gentle back hunched, when I glance over my shoulder. 

The cleaning cart is at the entranceway, but this is the first time she is inside the store. If somebody finds out she goes to  _ jalan-jalan  _ while on duty, she can get fired.

I hurry back to the counter. I scan the barcode, punch the ENTER key and, when the till opens, I slam it shut immediately. I can make up the difference later when I close the register; there must be enough coins in the box my manager leaves as petty cash under the counter.

“Here you go!” 

She takes the can, grunting. I take it as the Thank You she means it to be. 

When she turns to leave, I notice a plastic container on the counter top. It is filled with colourful homemade  _ kuih _ .

“ _ Makcik,  _ you left something behind!” 

I did not think it was possible, but she looks grumpier than before. She points at the container and then at me. Then she left the store, clearly desperate to get away.

Eh. Ehhhhh. EHHHHHHH. 

CLANG-DONG.

“Thank you!” I shout, belatedly and, for a while after, the world looks alright again. 


	4. Session 6

**Construction has finally completed on a new metro station. Describe its opening day.**

There is a rumour that the communications department in the university spends most of their 9 to 5 working hours watching funny cat videos, in between deleting inflammatory posts on the university confessions pages and ordering RedMart to stock up the pantry. 

I can confirm that this is true. At least, during the summer months. The university goes on break and the communications department operates on a skeleton crew. 

This includes me, the Communications Intern. 

My best friend is the Weather Intern at the local newspaper. His biggest claim to fame is a weather Tweet making clever reference to Star Wars. We complain about our jobs to each other all the time on Twitter (on our private accounts, of course). 

Today, the latest gossip is that the Nice Editor is on sick leave, the weather is showers with thunder, and the Transport Intern is panicking. Apparently, there is a new metro station opening in ten minutes at the university. And the Transport Intern is only just finding out that he is assigned to cover the event.

The catch is, newspaper policy means his article needs to be filed (or sent to the Scary Editor) in the same hour. 

  
  


**Weather Intern @hottestdayisSUNday**

**@mostboringsummer** dude, my friend is LEGIT crying rn. he says he can write the article in his sleep but needs a quote. can u stand arnd the station and pretend to be an interest bystander plsplspls

**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** ok ya i am bored but not THAT bored??? 

**Weather Intern @hottestdayisSUNday**

**@mostboringsummer** plsplsplspls i hear this kind of events have buffet 

**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** sigh F I N E

  
  


The unfortunate combination of term break, bad weather and that nobody really announces the opening of a metro station until after the fact, means that I am actually surprised to see a snaking line at the basement.

I tap on the shoulder of the last person in the queue. The lanky boy has curly black hair under a battered baseball hat that has peeling fabric on the rim, an oversized marathon event t-shirt, biker shorts and cheap slippers. 

“’Sup, bro?” he greets in an overly familiar tone. I blank out. Then, before the silence drags on, he continues, “’aven’t seen ya since lessons ended, what, three weeks ago? Man, my stats grade sucked. I must have tanked the bell curve.”

He monologues, and I remember vaguely I was the Teaching Assistant for his Monday morning stats module with the Professor that calls everyone “Mister” or “Miss”. 

“So, uh,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the queue. “What’s going on?”

“You’re not on the Telegram group chat?” he asks, surprised. He pulls out his mobile phone – and I try not to think about  _ where  _ it was, his shorts are  _ skintight _ – and taps a couple of times. “Here, I just added you. We got to look out for each other, man. Uni life is tough.”

I hear the rapid succession of notification  _ pings _ . The title of the group chat is  **FREE UNI FOOD** .

“Thanks dude,” I say, and excuse myself.

  
  


**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** literally nothing is happening here

**Weather Intern @hottestdayisSUNday**

**@mostboringsummer** my friend asks, ARE ANY IMPORTANT GOVT PEOPLE THERE

**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** ok lemme check

  
  


The gantries to the metro station are open, presumably in celebration of the launch opening. There is nobody in sight except for a mild-mannered old man behind the Ticketing Office glass wall. He nods at me. I mime eating, and he holds up a Styrofoam plate with tiny pastries. I give two thumbs up. 

The escalators are not working. I sigh, counting at least three plateaus on the long flight of stairs. 

  
  


**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** u srsly owe me

  
  


There is a tight group of people in deep discussion at one of the doors. I recognise our university provost (she does  _ not _ have fans on the confessions pages, I can tell you that) and the Manager of the communications department. 

The Manager spots me. She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow and looks me up and down. She is in a black cocktail dress with sensible heels. I suddenly get self-conscious in a camp t-shirt with visible dried paint stains and jeans, but immediately perish the thought. I am not paid enough to get a dress code. I square my shoulders and walk confidently to the group. 

“I told the security guard not to let the students in during the opening ceremony,” I catch the university provost saying irritably to the Manager, as I get into earshot. 

“That’s my intern,” the Manager replies, taking a mollifying tone. “I’m sure there’s a reason. Besides, the Ministry officials left, and it’s just us.”

I do some quick thinking, though this is a disappointment. “Uh, I’m thinking of updating our Facebook page with this event,” I explain, assuming the position of attention next to the Manager, “with some pictures and a quote?”

**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** dude i DM-ed u the quote and some pics. sorry govt ppl left alr but soundbite from uni provost good enough???

**Weather Intern @hottestdayisSUNday**

**@mostboringsummer** lol u mean the bitch on the confessions pages

**Communications Intern @mostboringsummer**

**@hottestdayisSUNday** pfft ya

**Weather Intern @hottestdayisSUNday**

**@mostboringsummer** got it thanks BEST INTERN AWARD GOES TO YOU 


End file.
